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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25580788">Coming of Age</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/livvy1843/pseuds/livvy1843'>livvy1843</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Cutting, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, No Slash, Parent Aaron Hotchner, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Sad Spencer Reid, Secrets, Spencer Reid Whump, Team as Family, author has Problems</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:47:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,859</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25580788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/livvy1843/pseuds/livvy1843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During a case in Vegas, Spencer's secrets are revealed. What will come of them? How will the team manage? </p><p>This will be a multi-chapter fic. </p><p>There will be no slash, at least between the main characters.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Hotchner &amp; Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan &amp; Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss &amp; Spencer Reid, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau &amp; Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia &amp; Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid &amp; David Rossi, Spencer Reid &amp; The BAU Team</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>409</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Slightly different timeline.<br/>- Rossi and Prentiss are on team<br/>- Rossi came back 6 months ago<br/>- Prentiss has been on the team for a year<br/>- It is 2005<br/>- Gideon left 6 months prior to the beginning of the story<br/>- Haley has already left Hotch (like 2 months ago)<br/>- Jack does not exist<br/>- But Hotch is the same age and everything (mid-30s right?)<br/>- Elle left a year and 6 months ago<br/>- Reid is on his second year at the BAU<br/>- This is before Hankel<br/>- But Reid may still have had a drug problem in the past. I have not decided yet.<br/>- Also: I’m not religious but I don’t want to offend anyone. So If I use the word G-d, I put a dash instead of an “o”.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>         The case was brutal. Six women in six months had been brutally murdered in Las Vegas, Nevada. All around 25 years old, they had been left in alleyways behind casinos after being stripped of their clothing, a sharp contrast to the kind of utopian euphoria the casinos advertised. As can be inferred, the Las Vegas Police were anxious to close the case. The mounting pressure from casinos and the outcry of fear from the city-folk were getting on their nerves. It didn’t help that the killer had been leaving notes in code at the crime scenes as the press was having a field day, labeling him “one of the most notorious serial killers American history”. They were finally left to do what they had been trying to hold out on for six months: Calling the FBI.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Quantico, Virginia. Monday, March 14th, 2005. 8:07 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“7 minutes, Pretty Boy”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Morgan laughed while lying back casually in his seat. Reid’s eyes stayed glued on his feet while he took his messenger bag off the dropped it by his desk. Morgan looked over suspiciously, but coming to the conclusion that he just didn’t hear him, he continued his teasing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So what has Mr. Punctual coming in late? Oh, I know, maybe someone has got himself a chick” Morgan said with a smirk. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid looked up briefly after sitting down. “You know I don’t have a girlfriend Morgan, my shower broke this morning and I had to go to my neighbor’s apartment to bathe”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey hey hey... Don’t get all defensive. I’m just teasing.” Morgan replied </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid laughed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just as Emily walked in and they had started to talk about their weekends (which included a night out clubbing in downtown DC on Morgan’s end, and a <em>Star Trek</em> marathon on Reid’s), Hotch came out of his office and started towards the conference room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My team to the conference room, we have a case”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch wore a sharp, determined expression. The team knew this face well: It was a bad one. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They sat at the round table as JJ showed pictures of the victims. Rossi was the first to speak up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So he’s stripping the women naked, but he does not sexually assault them, he may be impotent” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But why would he strip them naked then?” Morgan asked with genuine curiosity. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he has a hatred towards women. He can’t perform, but he feels a need to disparage them, so he steals their modesty” Emily theorized. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid, who was sitting criss-cross in his chair while biting his knuckle in thought, perked up with an idea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He probably had a mother or female guardian who abused him as a child”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can think of theories on the jet, right now we have to get to Vegas because if the Unsub follows his pattern, we should have another body by Thursday.” Hotch responded before adding his classic, “Wheels up in thirty” </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Monday, March 14th, 2005. 2:23 PM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Behavioural Analysis walked into the bustling Las Vegas police department around 2:30 PM. They were created by a mix of expressions; some were in awe of them while others scoffed and completely disregarded them, convinced they didn’t need help and didn’t want the federal government up in their business. However, the team was incredibly used to this behavior, so they were indifferent to their hostility. Soon a detective appeared in their line of sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You guys must be the BAU.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we are. I’m Agent Jareau. Are you Detective Franklin? We talked on the phone.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course.” Det. Franklin answered eagerly. “Please, call me John. Lemme show you to where we can get you all set up” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That would be great.” Hotch supplied. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They spent the rest of the day talking to the victim’s families, analyzing the notes left, and bouncing theories off one another. By the end, they had absolutely nothing. The victims had nothing in common besides their age and gender. They had different economic backgrounds, had grown up in different parts of town, went to different schools, etc. There was nothing to connect them. To make matters worse, Reid had yet to figure out how to decipher the code. Now nearing 9:00, the team was gathered in the wood-paneled conference room they were put in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe they’re just blitz attacks.” Morgan proposed from his stance in front of the room, exhausted from a day of dead leads. Hotch started walking towards Morgan, trying to get a better view of the board and began talking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would agree for you if it wasn’t for the notes and the location of the victims. If they were blitz attacks, the unsub would not have left notes; he would have been either too scared to or mentally incapable. Plus, the women never frequented casinos. In fact, it’s the only thing that connects them: that they seldom went out to clubs and bars. The women had to be dropped there, which begs the question: Why casinos?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the million-dollar question” Emily added, skimming through the reports scattered on the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After about 30 more minutes of running in circles, Reid yawned. Taking pity on the kid, and frankly, if we’re being honest, himself, Hotch told the team to get back to the hotel and call it a night. They were not getting anywhere anyway. Everyone left quickly except for Reid and Hotch; Emily, Morgan, and JJ laughing about Rossi’s insistence that he was entitled to the single room because he was, in his words, “the oldest and the wisest”. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “You know you don’t have to stay, right? I’m only staying because I have to clean up. You should go back and get some rest. You look exhausted.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch worried about his youngest agent. At age twenty-two, he could hardly drink legally; he definitely should not have to constantly tire himself out obsessing over the country’s most heinous and disturbing specimens. What made it worse was his eidetic memory. Hotch was thirty-four and he could not even begin to imagine what it would be like to be forced to remember every horrendous detail from every dreadful case they worked. He heard the nightmares Reid had at night when they roomed together on rare occasions. Once, he even had to forcibly wake him up because he was sweating and screaming erratically. The stains under his eyes were becoming incredibly pronounced and dark, and Reid was growing very thin from forgetting to eat. Not to mention the kid looked like an overgrown thirteen-year-old. Sometimes Hotch thought that, despite Reid’s extraordinary brain, Reid would be better off working in a lab somewhere.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, I just want to work on the case a little more. I just...I just need to get somewhere.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch sighed, knowing he was never going to get anywhere with Reid, resorted to sitting next to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s see what you got so far” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t know much. What I can assume though, is that he is very smart. This code is extremely complicated, it would take a very intelligent individual to use it and maybe create it. I don’t think the man has received a proper or higher education, however, as there seems to be no reference or similarities to any prior codes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s just great,” Hotch said sarcastically. “There is going to be no record of him on any school’s database.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I kn..n..now” Reid was interrupted mid-sentence by a yawn before promptly rubbing his eyes. Hotch, deciding to just go for it, took a deep breath and started talking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So Spencer, are you still having nightmares? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>First names were rarely used. Last names were used in the professional setting. If Hotch was calling him Spencer, it was personal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spencer was staring at his feet now. His converse clad feet were lightly tapping on the floor. They were the only sound in the now deserted office.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever considered taking something for them? Maybe it would help. I don’t like seeing you so drained.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spencer hesitated, caught off guard by Hotch’s concern. He always knew that Hotch cared about his well being. He just tried not to become involved too often, believing people deserved to have a private life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No! That’s not true Spencer. Hotch doesn’t actually care about you. He’s just worried you won’t be able to do your job. Don’t think like that. Be rational! No one will ever care for you, you little shit! He’s suggesting medication. You know what that means right? He thinks you’re batshit crazy. You’re exactly like your mother Spencer. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know. That stuff doesn’t work for me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Liar! He knows you’re lying, Spencer. He’s not an idiot like you. Make it more believable for God’s sake.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s just being in Vegas...brings up memories for me, you know” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Attaboy</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch knew what he meant. Spencer never talked about his childhood or his parents. Add that to his difficulty with affection and touch, not to mention his eager to please disposition, and it didn’t take a profiler to figure out that Spencer hadn’t had the greatest time growing up. He nodded. They stared at each other for a couple of seconds. A small lamp was illuminating their faces among the dark backdrop. Suddenly, Hotch’s cell rang. It was JJ. Det. Franklin had contacted her. A couple of young adults had stumbled upon a body behind a casino on the strip. It had a note, except this time it wasn’t in code: It was in Latin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sanguis meus mihi</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is mostly a case fic. After this most chapters will be angst/family/hurt and comfort.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> Emperor Casino and Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 12:04 AM. </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The crime scene was swarming with police. The walls of the alley were painted blue and red from the cop car sirens. Las Vegas never completely sleeps. There is always something going on. Even with a dead body lying in a pool of blood, people were still stumbling out of clubs and trying their luck at shot machines. </p><p> </p><p>Hotch and Reid stepped out of their SUV. Seeing Morgan, Prentiss, and Det. Franklin by the body, they rushed over, ducking under the police tape. </p><p> </p><p>“Is there anything about this victim that separates her from the others.”</p><p> </p><p>“So far, no. Throat is slit. No sexual assault. Clothes are gone.” Morgan answered squarely </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Hotch” Emily said, seeming disappointed herself. </p><p> </p><p>“Although we do have the note” Franklin answered, getting up from his knees near the victim’s head and dusting himself off. </p><p> </p><p>“Could I see it?” Reid asked meekly. No matter how many cases he went on. Talking to the LEOs with even the slightest bit of confidence seemed like an impossible task. </p><p> </p><p>“I gave it to CSI, but they’re gonna take it back to the station when they’re done dusting for prints.” </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, thanks Detective.” Reid turned his around, his eyes looking their gaze on Hotch’s chin. “Hotch, could I go ba..”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, of course. That’s a good idea.” Hotch interrupted, knowing full well what Reid was going to ask. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 1:03 AM. </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>The note was given to Reid in the conference room, having arrived thirty minutes earlier. He was glad he had the note now. He hated being left with his thoughts. Even though he didn’t have many friends, he was constantly surrounding himself with people, because if he was left alone, he knew he wouldn’t like the outcome. He never dreamed; he only relived memories. When alone, the lines between reality and fantasy blurred, and he was left cold, internally screaming for someone to save him from his mind. Being in Las Vegas was not helping his situation. Wherever he was, he was convinced he saw his father lurking in the dark, holding the large metal pipe he used to beat Spencer with when he got on his nerves. Despite how many miles away from Vegas he went, his father’s words still ran through his head like a broken record, continually belittling and degrading the boy. Now, being so close to home, his words felt so real. He could feel his hot, whiskey-tainted breath on his shoulder. He could smell his father’s sweat-drenched clothes and her mother’s cigarettes. He studied the note for a couple of seconds before writing what it roughly translated to on the whiteboard.</p><p> </p><p><em> My blood will have  </em> or  <em> Give me my blood </em></p><p> </p><p>He called Hotch immediately. </p><p> </p><p>“Hotch! I just translated the note. It means “my blood will have” or “give me my blood.” He wants something Hotch. He is killing to get the attention of us!”</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, calm down Reid” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry sir”</p><p> </p><p>“I will tell the team immediately. Stay put. We are finishing examining the scene, and then we are going into the casino to see if anyone saw anything.” </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, bye sir”</p><p> </p><p>“Bye Reid”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> Emperor Casino and Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 1:07 AM. </strong>
</p><p>“Who was that?”</p><p> </p><p>“It was Reid. He found out what the note says. The profile is wrong. He wants something”</p><p> </p><p>“Morgan, where did Prentiss and Franklin go? I was only gone for 2 minutes” </p><p> </p><p>“They are talking to the victim’s parents. They just arrived while you were talking to Reid” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, let’s go check out the casino” </p><p> </p><p>They walked inside the casino. Immediately they were greeted by the deafening sounds of laughs and screams, accompanied by the sonorous cries of glasses colliding. The casino was heavily air-conditioned, a contrast to the tepid spring-night weather of Las Vegas. The two agents made their way through the crowd, looking for someone who looked like a manager. They had both agreed that if anyone had seen anything, it would be the employees. </p><p> </p><p>“She was reported missing three days ago, meaning we have to know everyone who has worked the past three days” </p><p> </p><p>“We have profiled him as a coward though, so he probably dropped the body at night” </p><p> </p><p>“Good point” </p><p> </p><p>They walked up to the bar and got the attention of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, what y’all want?”</p><p> </p><p>“My name is Agent Hotchner, and this is Agent Morgan. We need to speak with the manager” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, sorry. Well, he technically can leave at eight, but he usually sleeps in his office.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where would that be?” Morgan answered in a monotonous voice. </p><p> </p><p>“Take a right at the last blackjack table and go through that door and up the stairs, it will be the first door on your left.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for your time”</p><p> </p><p>The bartender just nodded before going back to serving his customers. Hotch and Morgan started making their way towards the door; the patrons too wasted to even notice the FBI was there. They got to the door rather fast. It would have been faster if a drunk woman hadn’t latched herself onto Hotch and tried to flirt with him. Morgan was still chuckling as they charted up the service stairs. Just as the bartender described, the first door on the left had a large gold nameplate nailed to the door, reading <em> Francis Jefferson, Manager.  </em>Morgan looked at Hotch for permission before delivering a sharp set of raps to the door. They waited a couple of seconds for someone to respond. When nothing happened, Morgan knocked again, this time also yelling. </p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Jefferson. We need to speak to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Coming, coming, god damn it. If this is about the new shipment, I don’t wanna…” Jefferson stopped talking after opening the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi. I’m Agent Morgan, and this is Agent Hotchner. We need to talk to you” Jefferson stood back, welcoming them into his office. Jefferson was a short and stubby man. He had red hair that was starting to fall out and a very obvious beer belly. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and a pair of tan pants, both of which were wrinkled for sleeping on his office couch. </p><p> </p><p>“FBI? You guys here ’bout the murders, right? I know that girl was found just an hour ago outside this casino, but I surely said we didn’t have anything to do with it.”</p><p> </p><p>“We know. We just need to see a list of employees that worked the past three days.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah, yeah. Yeah sure.” He stuttered as he looked for the notebook that contained the employee records. Morgan was looking around the office when he noticed an interesting looking paper on the manager’s desk. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey Francis, what is this?” Morgan said, turning around and holding the paper toward where Hotch and Jefferson stood examining the employee lists.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that. Funny huh? The primary lawyer who deals with the casino is always writing things like that in code. I’m pretty sure those are just notes he must have left here.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re gonna take this.” Morgan looked at Hotch, “Hotch, it’s the same code as the notes” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 2:10 AM. </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Hotch and Morgan stormed into the conference room. They were determined to crack this code before anyone else lost their lives to this monster. Everyone was already there. On the way, Morgan had called Garcia to track down the firm and primary lawyer representing the Emperor Casino. </p><p> </p><p>Throwing the paper towards Reid, Hotch spoke, “Is this enough for you to crack it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Should be” Reid answered while thoroughly examining it. </p><p> </p><p>“I got it!” Reid proclaimed not even two minutes later. He quickly turned around to the board to write the six messages left on the bodies.</p><p> </p>
<ol>
<li><em>This is a warning. Give me him and I go away.</em></li>
<li><em>One last chance or the next one will be worse.</em></li>
<li><em>I found this one at the college, how cute. She actually belonged there. </em></li>
<li><em>I have given you so many clues and hints, what more do you need? Pay attention!</em></li>
<li><em>He’s a liar. Why the hell would you ever want him?</em></li>
<li><em>This is ridiculous. Bring them in already. I just want what is rightfully mine. </em></li>
</ol><p> </p><p>“So, the unsub definitely wants someone back” Morgan said, stating the obvious. </p><p> </p><p>“Is it possible the unsub could be a woman, and she wants her boyfriend or husband back?” JJ asked, breaking into the conversation. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t think so, the unsub had to carry the victims from the abduction and murder sight to the casinos; that’s too much weight to carry” Prentiss responded. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe the unsub is gay, or maybe it is a man who wants either his son or family member back?” Rossi proposed </p><p> </p><p>“The son theory makes sense. That would explain why he feels he is entitled to ownership of the person.” Hotch answered. “What I don’t understand is why he said <em> them  </em> in the sixth note, also the third one:  <em> She actually belonged there.  </em>What could that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>As Hotch was finishing his sentence, he was interrupted by Morgan’s cellphone. It was Garcia. </p><p> </p><p>“What you got, baby girl?” He said, slightly confused as to why Garcia called him instead of Morgan.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well my dark chocolate god, I found the firm that represents Emperor Casino. In fact, the firm represents all the casinos where bodies were dumped. It’s called Kirschenbaum, Wieder, and Moore. The primary’s name is William Reid.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks baby girl”</p><p> </p><p>“Anytime” Morgan hung up. “The primary’s name is William Reid” </p><p> </p><p>Reid felt his heart stop beating. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t breathe, as if his lungs were filled with glue. Finally, as everyone was leaving, he gathered up enough will to talk. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait”</p><p> </p><p>Everyone turned around. Rossi was the first to speak, “What’s wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“I know what he wants”</p><p> </p><p>Everyone stood bewildered before putting together the last names in their minds. It’s a common last name, there’s no way they could be related, right?</p><p> </p><p>“What does he want, Spencer?” Rossi inquired again.</p><p> </p><p>“Me” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you liked it! Please review if possible!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for all your nice reviews. I am sorry for the long wait. Life got in the way. There will be shorter time between updates from now on. Now, for the more important part of this note:</p><p>There will be no Gideon bashing in this story. Like all characters, he had his flaws, but he was not a bad person as some fanfic writers make him out to be. Also: I am changing the timeline I set in the first chapter. I realized it didn't make sense that Gideon left a year ago. Gideon now left 6 months ago.</p><p>Also, Trigger warning for drug use and cutting.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 2:18 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What does he want, Spencer?” Rossi inquired again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Me” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Morgan broke the silence, “So… Are you related to Will-” Morgan was quickly cut off by Reid’s soft but sharp voice, his tone failing to waver but his stance telling a much different story, one of a broken and beaten child. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s my dad, okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room fell still, everyone trying to comprehend the information revealed. No one knew much about Reid’s youth. They didn’t think much of it. They knew he grew up in Las Vegas, went to college, and met Gideon. Never had they considered his home life to be anything but Norman Rockwell-normal. And now his father may be a serial killer? That just threw a massive wrench into everyone’s little picture. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid, exasperated and too scared to answer any questions, ran out of the office; the only one calling out to him was Hotch, him desperately attempting to retain some sanity despite the situation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, well… I am not going to lie and say everything is fine. Right now, I want us to carry on as we would. JJ and I will go find Reid and talk to him. Everyone else stay here and gather everything we can find on William Reid and his law firm.” JJ and Hotch shared a look of concern and confusion before leaving to track down their wayward agent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment JJ and Hotch were out of earshot, Morgan transpired into a long, fortified, frenzied speech. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was that about! The kid’s dad is a serial killer! Man, he never told me anything about his childhood, and I’m the closest thing to a best friend that kid has. No! nonono, it must be a different William Reid. Let’s look at the obvious here, okay? William Reid must be a pretty damn common name. And I-” Morgan was cut off by Rossi’s firm call of his name. Even though Rossi and Morgan had very similar ranks, Rossi was still a legend among the FBI. Not many people could restrain Morgan when he became angry, often leading to a hurricane of disorder. However, even Morgan couldn’t help himself to have a bit of hero worship for the older profiler. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morgan. Calm down. I swear you’re worse than my mother on Sunday morning.” Rossi said with a scoff. “We have to think of this as any usual case. I have no idea what is going on with Reid or how it may affect the case, but we cannot allow ourselves to focus on that right now. Until we can confirm that the William Reid we are researching is, in fact, related to Spencer, it is not relevant. Now, innocent women are being killed. I know it is late, but this case is paramount, so we will stay until we get word from Hotch. Since Spencer is obviously not here, I am going to work on the geographical profile. Morgan, you and Prentiss search through the notebooks and any files you find on him with Gracia.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They got to work immediately, but not without some looks from Morgan and Prentiss. Garcia was in too much shock to say anything over the video call. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 2:25 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had to get out of there. He couldn’t take it anymore. The looks from his coworkers, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>, all too stunned to say anything. No! Not stunned-</span>
  <em>
    <span>Disgusted</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He knew he shouldn’t have come on this case. He should’ve just called in sick, say he had the flu or something. Fuck. That’s ridiculous. He never would have called in sick, never would have lied to his boss. He’s too much of a wimp for that, too much of a coward to tell one insipid white lie. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Finally Spencer! You’ve realized I’m right. You were always such a pathetic excuse of a man. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid ran through the streets of Vegas. In any other place at this time of night, the only sound would be Reid’s sniffles as he unsuccessfully tried to hold back heavy tears. But in Vegas, his sorrows were drowned out by the symphony of life that was played through the desert oasis. After running aimlessly for a while and earning pitied and bemused looks from passing pedestrians, he figured he had to find somewhere to go. He couldn’t possibly go to the hotel where he was staying. It was the first place the team would look for him, and right now, all Reid needed to alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ha! You think people are going to come after you, Spencer? It’s not like they care about you. All you are is a liability, just causing drama and problems that other people have to solve. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid shook his head violently, desperately trying to get the voice to stop. At last, his journey was over; he found what he was looking for: A motel. He darted through the parking lot, finding the main office and slamming the door behind him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you, sir?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh... yes please...do you have any rooms available?” He said, attempting to catch his breath. He looked at the clock: 3:09. He had been running for forty minutes. Well, he did once say he did his best work under intense terror. The tall, obviously weary man behind the desk shot a questioning glare at him as he chuckled from the comment he made in his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, of course. Room six is available.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reid paid, took the key, and rushed out to find room six. As he left, he could hear a muffled whisper from the clerk, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“fucking junkies”. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas Pacific Motel. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 3:12 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The old wooden door was thrown against its hinges as Reid barged into the small room and collapsed on the bed. The room wood paneled with a vomit-colored carpet covering the floor. It looked like the room hadn’t been touched since the 80s. There was something comforting in that, the fact the place seemed so far removed from reality. It was an escape for Spencer, one in which he didn’t have to confront the harsh and burdensome circumstances he usually did. Right now, he was alone. He was finally alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really Spencer? You know I’d never leave you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Except him. Shit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good boy</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spencer rolled over and groaned into a yellow, stained pillow. After a couple of minutes he made his way into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror. Dirty. That’s all he saw. A wretched, pathetic boy. He needed to be clean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas Business Marriott. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 3:17 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where could he have gone? He’s not here. We’ve been searching for basically an hour, Hotch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s think about this. Reid is insecure. He probably didn’t want to face us. Of course, he didn’t come back to the hotel. It’s the first place we would look. Have Garcia check if his credit card has been used anywhere. He must have gone somewhere. It’s too cold to stay outside.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch couldn’t believe what was happening. The kid really couldn’t catch a break. He had been so affected when Gideon left a couple of months ago. The man had been a father to him. Despite his intellect, Reid was very much a child. Even though he was twenty-two, Hotch couldn’t help but feel that emotionally, Spencer was younger. Spencer had relied on Gideon for support. He revered the man, and Gideon adored him. Spencer spent hours in Gideon’s office, as Gideon quizzed him, played chess with him, and talked to him. He did everything a father would do—</span>
  <em>
    <span>a loving, caring father. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It all made sense now. If Spencer’s father was the unsub and was willing to do all of this to have him, he could imagine the abuse he faced growing up. Hotch was no stranger to familial violence. His father was a drunk, a nasty, mean drunk, protected by his high social standing, leading him to be verbally abusive towards both him, his mother, and Sean. He remembered the nights he spent hiding in the bathroom with Sean while their parents fought. He remembered holding Sean as he cried while he tried to blame his own tears on sweat from the humid Virginia nights. All rationality told him he should focus on the case and not his junior subordinate’s childhood, yet, despite his steadfast volition, all he wanted to do was to take Spencer in his arms and tell him everything would be okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hotch. Hotch, you with me? Hotch!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was brought out of his trance by JJ’s shrill call of his nickname. No—</span>
  <em>
    <span>name. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He lived at this job. Hotch was his name. It shouldn’t be. His name should be Aaron. That’s why Haley left. Because his name was Hotch and not Aaron. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes? Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts for a second.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry. It happens to everyone.” She said with a scrutinizing glance. It may happen to everyone, but Hotch wasn’t everyone. She quickly chalked it up to the stress and uncertainty of the situation, not wanting to dwell on it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, I just got off the phone with Garcia. Reid’s card was used at a motel thirty minutes away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas Pacific Motel. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 3:17 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spencer stood at the mirror, examining himself. He was repulsive and nauseating. His arms were too thin, his skin ghostly white, his hips too large. He needed to get away, to go into his fantasy, to leave this world behind. Every part of his body yearned for it—the potent, clear, liquid divinity. The elixir that would take him out of his misery. Unfortunately, to Spencer’s displeasure, he was out and would need to contact a dealer. However, Spencer didn’t have time for that. He needed release, and he needed it now. So, he took the razor out of the complimentary bath kit and sat in a ball on the cold linoleum floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was in these moments when Spencer wondered how the hell he had gotten to this point. A genius with an abusive, sociopathic father and a schizophrenic mother, forced at age eleven to sell drugs because his father refused to pay to support him, despite making a six-figure salary—it was the stuff of movies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey! Don’t go blaming me for your dope addiction! I needed to teach you how to take care of yourself, you ungrateful brat! It’s not my fault you couldn’t take the pressure and started injecting yourself. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ignoring his father’s words, or rather his head’s words, Spencer brought the blade to the soft skin of the inside of his wrist. He hissed from the pain but continued with the cut because even though it hurt, it was a small price to pay to feel pure again. As he started the second cut, he was launched into a seemingly endless euphoria. He was high, the sight of the thick crimson sap on his milky flesh only sending him deeper into his bliss. He made three more cuts on his arm before being heaved out of his stupor by his father’s condemning words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><em><span>Seriously</span></em> <em><span>Spencer? Heroin is one thing. But this? This is just pathetic. At least drugs make sense; this shit is insane. </span></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shut up!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not even here. How can I shut up? It’s all you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well I still need you—me—to be quiet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Talking to voices inside your mind. You really are your mother’s son. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I thought I told you to shut up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who did you tell to shut up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spencer could feel himself stop breathing. His eyes were screwed onto the figure in front of him. The man was not in any way formidable, but Spencer knew looks could be deceiving. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“H..h..how did y..you get in here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t concern yourself with the technicalities. I’ve been looking for you for a while. I didn’t want to do this, but you weren’t answering my calls. I see you’ve fallen back into old habits. You’ve been a bad boy Spencer. Now come on, don’t make this difficult. Clean up your stuff and let's go. You know better than to disrespect your father.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Las Vegas Pacific Motel. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 3:42 AM.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They made good time, arriving at the motel in twenty-five minutes. Even in the middle of the night, Vegas traffic was excruciating. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, I am Agent Hotchner and this is Agent Jareau. I am looking for a man that came in earlier.” Hotch showed the man behind the desk a picture of Reid’s I.D. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah, he checked in like 45 minutes ago, but you just missed him. His dad came to pick him up. Poor guy, to have a son like that. I know what addiction can do to a family.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>JJ and Hotch exchanged a look of confusion, anger, and anxiety before JJ spoke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me....uh..”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Steve”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Steve, did his Father check in with him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. I told you he picked him up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you gave him a key?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. He told me that his son was having problems with drugs, and they were gonna put him in rehab today, so he ran away to shoot up in the middle of the night. Of course, I gave him the key. I’m sorry, but what is this about?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch glared at Steve. “You just gave up a federal agent to a serial killer.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have only cut a couple times, not enough to say I have had an addiction. I did it as a way to distract myself from my eating disorder, various mental disorders, and drugs (I have really shitty coping methods I know). But I have spent time in long term hospitals with people who were cutters and I think I have a good understanding of what is like. I do not mean to be disrespectful or inconsiderate with this story. I have done a lot of research and I have the best of intentions. If you feel offended, please tell me so I can change it. This story is basically me trying to cope with my childhood trauma through other characters and people so…..</p><p>Also: I am currently taking prompts for other criminal minds stories/one-shots. (mostly one-shots though) I will write any genre, even slash. BUT: no fantasy. I do not have the type of energy for that. Anyway…. If you have anything you want me to write. Either email me at livvy1843@gmail.com or if you are reading this on fanfiction.net message me. Please do! I'm so bored.</p><p>Hope you liked it! Please review!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait. Also, I’m so sorry this is the chapter you waited for. This chapter is all case stuff that was needed to move the story along. Next chapter however, is soooo angsty. I love it. You're in luck that I am almost done with that chapter and it will be up in the next 2-3 days. </p><p>Also: I am trying to keep the characters as in character as possible so if you see something or feel someone is a little ooc, please tell me so I can make it better! </p><p>Some of the dialogue was taken for season 4 episode 7: memoriam. </p><p>Trigger warning for discussion of sexual abuse.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 4:40 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>The station was alive with chaos. Everyone, including high-ranking officers, had been woken up and were running around the station in a caffeine-induced frenzy. Now that they had a main suspect who had kidnapped a federal agent, they needed all the brainpower and government sway they could get.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The team stood in the conference room; no one able to sit down. Their youngest and most vulnerable had been taken, by his own father nonetheless. Although it wasn’t rational, everyone felt that if they sat down, stopped just for a second; even it was for their own health: They would be failing Spencer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As always, Hotch was the first to speak up. “We have to treat this like any other case we would work on. The longer we think about Reid, uh </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the harder the case will be to solve, and the longer it will take to find Spencer. So, from now on, we will refer to Spencer as the hostage. We know that Reid will not kill him as he spent too long trying to get him. It would make no sense. So, this is no longer a case of life and death. Which, considering the circumstances, is great. Now, let’s build the profile.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone stood silent, taking in what Hotch had just said, desperately trying to comprehend the situation. Morgan looked like he was about to burst, enraged that his “little brother” was reduced to “hostage.” Rossi, the least personally attached to Spencer, only being on the team for six months, started talking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As Hotch said, we know that Reid has no intention of killing the hostage. Why he wanted the hostage so desperately, is beyond me. We originally profiled Reid as having no sexual urges or as impotent, maybe that was because the object of his sexual desires was his son, driving him to kidnap him. The hostage himself shows evidence of past sexual abuse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey hey hey! We don’t need to profile Reid...ugh the hostage. Morgan growled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we do. We would do it in any other case. I know it’s been a while since I’ve been in the field, but I don’t think the fundamentals of profiling has changed. Anyway, back to what I was saying, the hostage has a great adversity to touch, a trait often seen within sexual abuse victims. While I originally thought this trait of the hostage’s to be a product of autism, it would make sense for the trait also to be derivative of his father’s abuse, both sexual and given that he was capable of murder, physical. I think we should bring in the hostage’s mother, assuming she is not a part of the kidnapping, for questioning.” Rossi concluded his statement with a glare towards Morgan, before turning to Hotch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morgan call Garcia and tell her to find the mother and any information about William Reid. We have a warrant to raid his computer. Now, let’s revisit what we know and the code.” Morgan stepped out into the bustling precinct to call Garcia and break her the news that her “Junior G-man” had been taken, no one else brave enough to face her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We know that Reid is extremely intelligent. He might feel neglected and overlooked by his parents, leading him to believe his genius son is the only one he can properly converse with, thereby he writes the notes in code and Latin.” Prentiss proposed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s right. Sorry, I know I’m not one of you guys, but I mean, anyone can learn Latin. I had to take it in high school for God’s sake. I agree that William Reid is intelligent and feels disregarded, but the theory that he sees his son as an equal doesn’t fit with the...um...sexual abuse theory.” JJ said, both unsure and proud of herself. Even though JJ was not a profiler, she was not stupid, and she’d spent enough time with profilers to pick up a few things here and there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I agree with JJ” Morgan said, walking back into the conference room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’d Garcia take the news?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As expected.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is she looking for the information?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, she said it would take a minute to find it, so she should call me about now.” With that, Morgan’s phone rang. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re on speaker, Baby Girl.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Derek, as much as I love to play with you, how can I possibly provide my brilliant commentary, when my boy genius is missing! Oh, my poor baby.” Garcia said between sniffles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Garcia.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Oh..oh, right. Well, let me give you the rundown. I looked into his computer. No kiddie porn, no memberships to illicit websites, no dubious emails, no chat room history. I went back ten years. No questionable transactions that I can find. He’s a workaholic; he actually logs more hours than we do. He makes decent money, but he doesn’t spend a lot of it. He has a modest house. No other property where he could be holding my baby. He drives a hybrid. He doesn’t travel much. He stays away from the casinos. Um, and according to his veterinary bills, he has a very sick cat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t fit with the sexual abuse theory.” Morgan quipped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he doesn’t get off on porn or anything like that, his son being the only thing to satisfy him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, please wait ‘till I hang up to discuss your perverse theories.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Garcia, did you find the mother?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes...yes I did.” She said with obvious hesitation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, here is where it gets so extremely, very sad. William Reid married Diana Reid in 1983, the year our good doctor was born. Although it seems, Diana Reid was institutionalized for Schizophrenia in 1999. I have called Bennington Sanitarium, where Diana resides, and they are bringing her over now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch said as he motioned for Morgan to hang up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The team shared a look of pure anguish. Hotch looked particularly miserable. Wet eyes and a soft frown replaced his usually stoic and phlegmatic facade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am going to greet and interview Diana Reid. I want everyone to stay here. Dave, with me.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h2>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters: Interrogation Room #3. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 4:58 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hotch was doing his best to ignore the piercing stare Rossi was sending towards him. He had more important things to worry about rather than entertain Rossi’s questions. He had known Dave since he joined the BAU years ago. Although Dave had retired shortly after, he stayed in touch with the team via Gideon, coming on to consult multiple times. And despite Hotch’s qualms that Dave would not do well with the new group dynamic, Dave was still a profiler and a damn good one at that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When Diana Reid gets here, we need to do our best to act calm and non-threatening. According to her doctor, the government plays a large role in her delusions. She is extremely paranoid of and has a great distrust of the government, leading her to believe they are spying on her.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s very common in Schizophrenics. Is she lucid now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, she has been told the situation and is coherent and such. Apparently, she’s a genius.” For the first time in hours, a loose smile dressed Rossi and Hotch’s faces. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That makes perfect sense,” Rossi said. Hotch chuckled. Seeing this fleeting moment of joy, Rossi took the opening to try to talk to Aaron. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aaron, c’mon talk to me. What the hell is going on?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean, Dave? A serial killer has kidnapped a member of my team. I’m doing my job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I get that. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the dams in your eyes that are about to come crashing down.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dave.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t, “Dave” me. You’re just trying to distract from confrontation. You can’t out-master the master. I’ve been married three times, or have you forgotten.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Look, I’m just nervous. He has had a very hard year with Jason leaving. No one knew about his family life. I didn’t even know his parent’s names until now. I am beyond concerned about what will happen after this is resolved. If this is even resolved, he doesn’t know how to handle situations emotionally. We all use him for his mind; sometimes, I think we forget Spencer is still human. We know all people have their breaking point. He has had a rough year, well, a rough life. If these past days have been any indication, he has endured more than any of us could ever imagine, with a sick mother and a psychopath for a father. He is too young and too smart to lose it all. I just….I can’t….I don’t know what I would do with myself if I’m at fault for his demise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aaron, he’s a grown man” Just as Rossi spoke, an officer came in to alert them that Diana Reid had arrived. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<h2>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 5:40 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’d it go?” Morgan prompted the minute Rossi and Hotch walked back into the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not wasting any time for pleasantries, Hotch went right into it, “Mrs. Reid described her husband as a “dangerous, malicious man.” According to her, William was not pleased with having an “abnormal” son and took his anger out on him. She admits that William used to beat his son mercilessly but completely refuted the claim that he sexually abused him. However, we should not base our entire profile on this as it does seem Mrs. Reid was delusional. She swore her son was not FBI and, in fact, was sixteen and at college. Although it doesn’t seem she would know otherwise, as it turns out, her son has never visited her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s one loving family,” Prentiss laughed sarcastically, hopelessly trying to lighten the solemn mood while hiding the concern that was starting to impinge on her face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That makes sense. A mother feels guilty for not being able to protect her child, so she creates a fake persona of him.” Morgan added in, earning questioning looks from the team. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Well, the father definitely knew his son was FBI as he referred to us in note six: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bring <span class="u">them</span> in already.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Also, while you were interviewing Diana, we closed up the loose ends of the women. We concluded that the women were picked because they had nothing in common, to draw attention to the notes instead of any connections between them. They were dropped near casinos because Reid knew they would be found there. We still can’t figure out what the third note means however.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Emily. Anyone check in with Garcia to see if she had found anywhere where Reid could be taking and keeping his hostage?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, lemme call her.” Morgan reached into his pocket for his cellphone. His brow furrowed, and a slight tremor could be seen in his hands as he turned on the phone. “Five missed calls from Garcia, that’s weird.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey girl, everything ok?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I on speaker?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, but I can put you on.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re on, now what’s wrong.” All eyes were directed at Morgan, pleading for answers. Hotch spoke up, praying that something hadn’t happened. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Garcia, It’s Hotch, did something happen? Are you safe?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah, yeah, no...I mean, well, alright...um...you see I was checking all the records...you know seeing if something could give us any hints, and I found something really weird and strange and maybe it’s wrong, but I’m just kind of confused.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Garcia.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well anyway, I was just looking at the birth certificates and such. I missed this before because I saw the name and immediately connected it to my Junior G-Man. But well, William Reid’s son, Spencer Reid. He’s dead.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope you guys liked it! Sorry that some of the headings were so big. I'm having slight formatting issues. </p><p>Also: I am currently taking prompts for other criminal minds stories/oneshots. (mostly oneshots though) I will write any genre, even slash. BUT: no fantasy. I do not have the type of energy for that. Anyway…. If you have anything you want me to write. Either email me at livvy1843@gmail.com or if you are reading this on Fanfiction.net, message me. Please do! I’m so bored.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh my god, this fucking chapter. Where do I even begin? I wrote this sleep deprived so I had to go through it again. I’m not particularly proud of it but it does answer some questions. (Not all, but I promise everything will be explained in chap 6). On the brightside, I reached 10k words!</p><p>I am so sorry for making Rossi kind of mean in this. He will get better I promise! I just needed someone to play devil’s advocate and he was the best choice. </p><p>I completely made up the Culpepper road. I have no idea if it’s real. Although, Angle, UT is a real place. I’ve never been but it is a small agricultural village about four hours outside of Vegas so it worked. </p><p>Trigger Warning for vague mentions sexual assault and cutting. There is once use of a homophobic slur, but as someone who is part of the gay community, I do have the right to use it. </p><p>Quote is John Steinbeck’s</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 5:43 AM.</h2><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah, yeah, no...I mean, well, alright...um...you see I was checking all the records...you know seeing if something could give us any hints, and I found something really weird and strange and maybe it’s wrong, but I’m just kind of confused.”</p><p> </p><p>“Garcia.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well anyway, I was just looking at the birth certificates and such. I missed this before because I saw the name and immediately connected it to my Junior G-Man. But well, William Reid’s son, Spencer Reid. He’s dead.” </p><p> </p><p>“What the hell do you mean he’s dead.” </p><p> </p><p>“I mean this Spencer Reid, son of William and Diana Reid, is a different Spencer Reid than our Spencer Reid.” </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, the entire room broke out in confusion and laughter, “Baby Girl, ‘this a joke? ‘Cause this ain’t the time.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not making a joke. I have decency! What I mean is, William and Diana Reid had a son on October 28th, 1989 named Spencer Reid. However, he died from a drug overdose in 2001 at age twelve. So, I looked into our Spencer Reid. Our Spencer Reid was born Eric Tirwin on October 10th, 1983, to Gary and Leann Tirwin. Gary and Leann Tirwin died in 2001 after their Las Vegas home went up in flames. Three weeks after this accident, Eric Tirwin changed his name to Spencer Reid and applied to Caltech. Over the next two years and a half years, he garnered two doctorates and two bachelor’s degrees virtually, before physically attending the FBI academy and entering the BAU. </p><p> </p><p>While everyone tried to digest the information that had been thrown at them, their faces muddled with bewilderment, Morgan, in defiance of his best efforts, could not keep his anger from spilling. </p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck do you mean! How is it possible that Spencer Reid is dead, well not Spencer Reid, but that Spencer Reid! Look, I’m just saying Reid acknowledged William as his father; everyone remembers that right, I’m not fucking losing my mind here?”</p><p> </p><p>The team nodded swiftly, not wanting to engage the beast that was Morgan’s wrath. </p><p> </p><p>“Good, so we’re all on the same page. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t know what this is. I’m sorry Baby Girl. I don’t mean to go all nuclear on ya, but c’mon what tale are we spinning? One that Reid faked his death when he was twelve and stole a dead teenager’s identity?! Not to mention the logistics of this are impossible. I mean, how the hell does a twelve-year-old commit identity fraud! And are we forgetting that this theory would mean that Reid would be like fifteen!”</p><p> </p><p>“Sixteen.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever.” </p><p> </p><p>“Morgan, thank you for that lovely display, but can we please keep calm for the remainder of this night, well, morning. Now, let’s bring Diana Reid back.” Rossi stated frankly. </p><p> </p><p>“You want to bring a deranged mentally ill woman back to a police station she already left just 20 minutes ago, at 5:00 AM nonetheless. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because, if Reid truly faked his death, then he is sixteen. Which means Diana Reid was not delusional—she was telling the truth.” Hotch stared at the wall with melancholia as he spoke, as if he knew what horrors and struggles were to come. </p><p> </p><h2>
  <b>Somewhere in Southern Utah. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 7:00 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>The sun was making its ascent over the blunt, pink mountains of rural Utah as the newly reunited Reids drove down the serpentine dirt passage. Turning his head to evade its scorching rays through the window, Spencer locked his eyes on his father’s face. He hadn’t seen those worn eyes and heat-seared skin since that monumental day in December four years ago. </p><p> </p><p>“You comfortable?”</p><p> </p><p>“Where are we going?” Spencer replied, refusing to answer his father’s aimless questions. </p><p> </p><p>“Spencer, I spent a long time getting you back. The least you could do is have a little patience. You were always so needy.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not needy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop it Spencer.” William said in a tone that didn’t allow for disobedience, or, at least, Spencer knew it didn’t allow for disobedience, the numerous beatings ingrained in his mind. It was incogitable that Spencer was sitting in this car right now. He was sitting in the same spot his mother sat when they took that road trip to San Francisco in ’95, his parents telling stories and jokes the whole way there, with a wondrous and giggling six-year-old in the backseat. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ve never been a fan of Steinbeck. I appreciate his writing, but it lacks what almost all contemporary writers do, an element of fantasy and pure nuance. The love or sadness portrayed does not compare to stories like Culhwch and Olwen or the everlasting Canterbury Tales. However, I find he properly captures the root at my love for the desultory expedition, ‘A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.’ That Spencer, is why I love them, because they are the work of the soul, not only the mind.” </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>That was the last road trip they ever took. As Mom slowly suffered defeat to her illness, all normality drained from the once joyous yellow-tinted house at the end of Culpepper lane. Dad was thrown into a perpetual state of exhaustion, grieving for the family he lost. <em> The perfect American family. </em>A beautiful, brilliant mother now insane. A vivacious son no longer able to deal with his surroundings, stunting and isolating him. A kindhearted father, willing to do anything for his blood, now maiming it out of fury. Diana grew distressed beyond reason, ashamed at the agony she caused her poor husband, only provoking him further. It was inevitable, what came next. William Reid reached his breaking point. Well, rather, he crashed into it. His once soft, gentle eyes were now empty shells, white paper moons, devoid of depth. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“<em> Diana. Diana! Diana, please dear Jesus, please listen.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I will not entertain your heresy, now please leave me alone.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Diana, they will be here in a couple of minutes. All I am doing is giving you a chance to gather some things for yourself, to have some closure.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Please just leave me alone!” Diana slammed her office door, locking herself in.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Diana. Diana! Please! Open the door goddamn it.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Daddy what’s going on?” Spencer frowned, coming downstairs, unable to finish his homework with all the fighting, even though he could easily solve his 4th-grade work.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Spencer get the fuck back into your room.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Why Daddy?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Did you fucking here me! You little faggot, just go. You already cause your mother enough pain.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m so sorry. Mommy are you there?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “WHAT THE HELL DID I TELL YOU SPENCER! GO BACK TO YOUR ROOM BEFORE I GET THE BELT”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Spencer? Are you there? Don’t listen to Daddy. I love you baby. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “SPENCER!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> With that, Spencer scurried upstairs, fearing the punishment he was sure to have later. That was the last time he heard his mother’s voice.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><h2>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 7:00 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>“Hotch, I’ve already checked, William Reid has no other properties besides his home.” </p><p> </p><p>“Alright, sorry to bother you Garcia. I’ll have Morgan call you back when we get more information.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m counting on it, Sir.” </p><p> </p><p>Hotch felt his head collide with his hands. He was drained—they all were. They had been up for twenty-four hours now, almost four hours since Spencer—<em> the hostage </em>—had disappeared. No. He had not disappeared; he had been taken. Like a helpless child, their brightest and kindest had been taken. But Spencer was not a helpless child, maybe not even as innocent as he had been pegged. The naivety was a coping mechanism to protect himself from the harsh realities he was forced to endure. But maybe it was true, and Spencer was a helpless child. A child, who, given recent events, may turn out to be only sixteen, has no right to be working in the FBI even though it’s the only family he’s ever had. Maybe the bullies, his teachers, and his father were right. All he was a computer to be used. Without his mind, he was nothing. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly Hotch shook himself, guilty that he had just profiled a team member when he was not even there. He dragged his feet back into the conference room from the private office he had been given. </p><p> </p><p>“I hope everyone has enjoyed their breakfast. Wait, where’s Dave?”</p><p> </p><p>“He went out to some fancy bakery.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course. Anyway, I think since we have all just had a break, we should refresh and go over what we have from the start.”</p><p> </p><p>“Without Rossi? Okay.” </p><p> </p><p>Picking up files from the table, Emily locked eyes with Hotch, “According to Diana Reid, she and her husband met in college at a party, William was pre-law at Amherst while Diana was majoring in English at Smith. Essentially, they are smart. William Reid is smart. They marry in 1983 and then seemingly have a son in 1989. The Reid family is happy until Diana Reid starts showing signs of schizophrenia. At this point, William becomes angry and takes said anger out on his son, physically and sexually abusing him. In 1999, William commits his wife to a physiatric institute, separating her from her then ten-year-old son. From then on, her son starts exhibiting startling behavior. The son is exceptionally bright, but his father prevents him from skipping grades in order to be “normal”. While many of his teachers had recommended getting him tested for autism over the years, he did not have any behavioral issues growing up. Over the next two years, the child is arrested for possession and selling illegal substances for which he avoids going to juvenile detention under suspicious circumstances. Eventually, the child, desperate to escape, fakes his own death. Being a genius, he somehow figures out to attain the identity of a teenager who died weeks prior. He then, now being legally older, goes to college and enters the FBI. His father discovers or, already knowing, he is alive, seeks him out to fulfill his sexual urges. Which gets us...to well...here.”</p><p> </p><p>“So we are sticking with the theory that Pretty Boy is sixteen?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a theory anymore. It’s fact. Records don’t lie.” Hotch glares at Morgan, not wanting to go into the specifics of what will happen now that Spencer’s age has been revealed, partly, because he doesn’t know himself. </p><p> </p><p>“Reid didn’t sexually abuse his son. Diana’s right.” Rossi leans against the wall, eating a particularly elaborate chocolate eclair. </p><p> </p><p>“Care to explain?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, of course. Still getting used to this group thing, remember?” He smirked, earning unamused looks to his dissatisfaction. “Fine, does Spencer Reid seem like the type of kid who would use or sell drugs? No, well yeah. William Reid used him after Diana Reid was put in a sanitarium. He lost some of their annual income but wanted to keep up his lifestyle, so he forces his son to make it by pawning him off to sell dope or whatever drug he is given. In fact, I bet if you look at his financial records from those years, you’ll see that he has a large chunk of money coming in with no obvious patron. William Reid is a good lawyer; he probably got his son off with his connections. Now, I don’t know what he is planning to do with Spencer now, but let me tell you he’s making bank off of it somehow.” </p><p> </p><p>“Morgan, tell Garcia to look into William Reid’s financial records from 1999 to 2001.”</p><p> </p><p>“Also, Aaron, Diana Reid arrived as I came in.” </p><p> </p><h2>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters: Interrogation Room #3. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 7:15 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>“They should think about decorating this place; it’s just so mundane. I dislike mundane things; there’s just no magic in it.”</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t prioritize making this experience “magical” for our suspects.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dave. Dr. Reid is not a suspect.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, I know. Diana knows what I mean.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have a Ph.D., please address me as such.”</p><p> </p><p>“I am sorry about my partner. Agent Rossi is simply very anxious to bring your son home.”</p><p> </p><p>“You are David Rossi? I didn’t realize I had been talking to the infamous BAU.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know you were a fan.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I’m not, but Spencer was obsessed with your books. Always talking about how he wanted to go to the academy and work alongside David Rossi and Jason Gideon. Hmph...I always thought what you did was particularly morbid and I worried for Spencer, always so sensitive. But, when it came to helping other people, my Spencer was the most charitable, completely forgetting about himself. He has such a kind heart.” Diana sighed. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, it’s nice to know that we have a fan.” Rossi and Hotch shared a look.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure. Now, why am I here? I would think the FBI has better things to do than interrogate innocent women at barbaric hours in the morning.”</p><p> </p><p>“We are just trying to find your son, Dr. Reid.” The two agents sat down across from Diana, Hotch keenly waving to the Bennington nurse standing in the corner. </p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me? What do you mean? My son is at college.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Reid, do you not remember earlier? Your son was—”</p><p> </p><p>“Aaron.” Rossi sharply interrupted Hotch, receiving a jarring glare from the man.</p><p> </p><p>Rossi continued hesitantly. Even though Rossi was not at all immoral, he knew what his job required of him, and if lying was going to bring a scared kid home, he was going to lie. “Dr. Reid, your son is perfectly fine. What Aaron means to say is that we need to get in touch with him as a witness, but we can’t seem to find him. We think he is with his father, do you know of any places where his father would have taken him?” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s with his father? William told me he was at college last time he came to visit me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Diana, I’m sure he is. Now back to the question.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! Yes, sorry sorry. I really don’t know. Sometimes William goes on vacation to his grandmother’s old ranch. Does that help?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, thank you Dr. Reid.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hope this helps. I always told Spencer to stay away from danger, but here he is getting into trouble, kids you know?” Diana Reid sighed again, though this time, the sigh was tainted with sadness.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s only a witness. Don’t worry. Now, the nice officer that just came in is going to show you and your nurse out. Thank you for your time.” At which point, Rossi and Hotch bounded out of the interrogation room, leaving Diana and her nurse behind. </p><p> </p><p>“She didn’t remember anything about earlier. She didn’t even have the same disposition towards her husband.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dave, she’s schizophrenic.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, she just ‘ain’t winning mother of the year, that’s all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dave stop, we don’t have time for this.”  </p><p> </p><h2>
  <b>Reid Family Ranch, Angle, Utah. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 7:15 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>Spencer collapsed onto the stale mattress. He was shaking erratically. He needed relief. He needed relief now. It had been too long since he had cut but his father had locked him in one of the guest bedrooms, saying he didn’t need him ‘till eleven, so now he was stuck staring at the walls. The paper was peeling, and below the gaudy floral print, a faint blue polka-dot could be sighted. This room had once been a nursery. When? Spencer had no idea. But, once, life had grown in this room. Now, the only life in this room was the ones in sepia surrounded by brittle silver frames. </p><p> </p><h2>
  <b>Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 7:20 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>“The ranch, or well farm, is located in Angle, Utah. It is under the name Ida Reid, who seems to be the biological grandmother of William Reid. However, she passed away in 1975, so I am not completely sure why her name is still on the property. But here’s the thing, it’s completely isolated on fifty acres.”</p><p> </p><p>“How far away is it?” JJ probed, anxious to find her friend. </p><p> </p><p>“267 miles, about a four-hour drive”</p><p> </p><p>“If this is where Reid is, he should have just arrived. It’s a long drive. We leave in ten.” </p><p> </p><h2>
  <b>Reid Family Ranch, Angle, Utah. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 10:38 AM.</b>
</h2><p> </p><p>He was slumped over the toilet, his head between his knees, trying to regain blood flow to his brain. Grasping his stomach, his vision began to return; no longer was he stuck in a thick fog of indolence. He reached out to the counter and grabbed a starch ivory washcloth, and pushed it against the erupting cuts on his wrist. He stayed in position for what he assumed to be ten minutes as the only clock in the room had been broken since ’81. Subconsciously, Spencer was grateful for the absence of a working clock, as if Spencer had seen the clock, he would have known that it was 10:46. He would have known he had been trapped for over three and a half hours. He would have known that something very bad was about to happen in approximately fourteen minutes. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, Spencer gained enough strength to pull himself up and gracelessly search for something he could wrap his wounds in. His forage was successful, finding some old gauze under the sink, but not without accidentally knocking into the piece of a mirror he used to make his cuts. As he touched to taut fabric to his gashes, the door was forced open, a firm hand grabbing wrist. Spencer yelped as the hand came in contact, his skin still very sore. </p><p> </p><p>“What the hell… See you’re up to old habits. This was always the worst. Patch yourself up, they’re driving up the way now. Come out to the parlor when you’re done, and don’t you dare try anything.” </p><p> </p><p>“What...is happening, why did you take me again" </p><p> </p><p>"You know very well now come outside."</p><p> </p><p>Minutes later he would feel his father's hands back on him and he'd be taken back to his small little bedroom. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on Spencer. Leave! You don’t need to be here. Think of Mommy. If you die, you get to see Mommy. You can be together again. Hold your breath! C’mon let’s try. Yeah, like that. It’s all gonna be better now. You’re gonna be with Mo— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't do it. Damn it he couldn't do it, before long he felt himself being lifted into the back of the car trunk. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good. Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good. Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good. Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good. Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good. Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good. Dear God, I don’t know if you exist, but if you do, please stop this. I’ve been so good.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>After the seventh time he repeated his mantra, he felt the warm sun on his skin as the darkness subsided. He was lifted up, the movement startling him and forcing more tears out. Unable to regain composure, he reached out to his savior. </p><p> </p><p>“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyousomuch”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay Spencer. I got you. Don’t worry; I got you.” Hotch shot up a pained look at Rossi as he rubbed the boy’s back.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything’s going to be okay.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Also: I am currently taking prompts for other criminal minds stories/oneshots. (mostly oneshots though) I will write any genre, even slash. BUT: no fantasy. I do not have the type of energy for that. Anyway…. If you have anything you want me to write. Either email me at livvy1843@gmail.com or if you are reading this on Fanfiction.net, message me. Please do! I’m so bored.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am so sorry for the long wait. I recently fell into a depression and I had to take some time to take care of myself. Along with that, I also moved on to campus for the first time, then had to move back out because of Covid. So... I have had a bit of a turbulent month. But I am getting back into things and should be writing more frequently now. Also, I have a tumblr now. Follow me @livvy1843</p><p>A note: I realize there is a line that may seem like a biblical reference. This is not intentional. I am not religious at all and in no way mean to imply that Spencer Reid is, in fact, Jesus.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 1.   The Symphony </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Evening sun streams through the small window at the end of the room, illuminating the beige cell in a golden hue. A steady beeping to his left sets the rhythm while the faint chatter of nearby people adds the melody. Finally, the soft hum of the news playing on television and the cries of small infants complete the symphony. This is not the first time he has heard this particular piece, nor does he doubt it will be the last.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Mountain View Hospital and Medical Center, Las Vegas, Nevada. Tuesday, March 15th, 2005. 5:53 PM.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Warily, he pries his eyelids open, dragging his head to examine the familiar-looking starch white walls. It's then that he notices rain dripping down the pane of the lonely window, more interesting though, is the one Aaron Hotchner sleeping in a small chair to the left. </p><p> </p><p>"H..h..otch," Spencer lets out in a breathy whisper, still fatigued from the pain medicine he had been prescribed. As Hotch continues to lie unconscious, Spencer decides to take more aggressive measures to wake his superior, which given his current physical situation, is him pathetically hitting Hotch's knee with his toes. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes. Stand down." Hotch says firmly as he comes too. </p><p> </p><p>"Hotch, it's just me, Spencer Reid."</p><p> </p><p>"My god, you're awake," says Hotch with a sigh, holding his head in his hands briefly before placing them on Spencer's too thin body. </p><p> </p><p>"Hotch, why am I in the hospital?" Spencer questions with youthful innocence, much in contrast with his reality.</p><p> </p><p>"What do you mean? Reid, you were…" Hotch drifts off, wondering what is the best course of action as big wet eyes stare up at him with silent pleas, "Reid, what do you remember about the past few days?"</p><p> </p><p>"Huh? Hotch just tell m—" But Spencer is quickly cut off by his boss's piercing stare and proceeds to answer the question. "Well, we are working a case where an unsub has been killing random women in the Las Vegas area and leaving cl...clues... Oh. I-I...I um, would, um like you to leave now." He says timidly as realization dawns upon him, suddenly remembering the past couple of days with horrifying clarity.</p><p> </p><p>"I can't do that Reid. You know that." </p><p> </p><p>"Well, you probably should, you know you probably haven't gotten a lot of sleep and I..um..I just need a couple minutes, ok?" Hotch heaves out a long breath, knowing very well that the team hadn't slept in over 36 hours until they had returned to Las Vegas, and Hotch had forced them back to the hotel. And, after much protest, he finally won and went to get himself situated in the small chair next to Reid's bed and rest his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>"Spencer."</p><p> </p><p>Seeing no leniency in Hotch's face, Spencer turned his head and tried to get comfortable in the narrow bed, whining when he tugged at the IV in his elbow. He turned back to face his superior again, staring at the creases on his forehead. They're more pronounced than usual, the sunlight casting shadows, making them look sharp around the edges. He never used to have those creases; his face was always smooth and fresh. Even with his perpetual stoicism, you could always tell that underneath, there was a kind man, a compassionate one. Everything he did, he did to help people, to save them. It was a shame he couldn't save what he cherished most: his family. </p><p> </p><p>As Spencer felt his eyes drooping, falling back into slumber, he felt a calloused hand brush his forearm. "Reid, we need to go over some things about the case now." </p><p> </p><p>"I'm not ready." Spencer scowled. </p><p> </p><p>"I know, but it's crucial that we get the full story, alright?" Spencer pursed his lips, annoyed at the kindness his boss was showing him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>How many times do I have to tell you Spencer, that no one is truly kind. He has a job to do, a title to keep, which is more than you could ever say. You lasted almost two years. I'll give you that. But how could you be so foolish to think it would actually last? You're nothing more than a loser and a coward. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"No I'm not! You're the coward!" Spencer yelled, sitting up in a flash before devolving into a fit of tears. Hotch, taken aback by the sudden outburst, did the first thing that popped into his and took the boy into his arms. He rocked him slowly, whispering small assurances to Spencer as he did. At that moment, it didn't matter how unprofessional the act seemed. The boy, so defenseless and delicate, had been held and tortured for days and by the wounds and object found on and in him, most likely assaulted. If anyone needed to be comforted and consoled, it was him. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>2.  The Masterpiece</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Frozen. Two taut limbs stretch out, caging the body before them. The ends of the limbs, fragile hands with glass fingers, lock into the covered flesh below them. As the grip tightens, the other man is forced to come closer, taking the bruised-blue face of the child, now almost a twisted purple because of the tear-stained red that covers his countenance, under his chin. Droplets of saltwater can be seen on the older man's shirt if one looks close enough, illuminated just enough by the tangerine light that escapes the shadows. They are stuck in time, still and unchanging. A portrait of tragedy. A portrait of hope. The father and the son.  </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>Hotch roamed the halls of the hospital in search of a coffee machine. Spencer had fallen asleep in his arms, drained from crying. He had texted Rossi that Spencer had woken up but not to tell the team, trying to ensure that everyone didn't end up completely sleep deprived. Plus, it is not like he'd been able to get anything out of Spencer anyway. Hotch sat down in a chair in an empty hallway, given up on his quest to find caffeine. He needed to think, get his mind straight. So much had happened in the past few days. And that's the only way to describe it, "so much." There were no words of elegance that could properly describe the gravity of the situation. Dropping his head into his hands, Aaron took refuge between the starch white walls. </p><p>
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</p><p>"So what are we going to do with the kid?"</p><p> </p><p>"Dave, I thought I told you to stay at the hotel with the team," Hotch said, turning his head from the vending machine—he finally found the coffee. </p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry about the team. They're still sleeping. They don't even know he woke up yet, alright? I just wanted to check on you." </p><p> </p><p>"I'm doing fine."</p><p> </p><p>"Of course. So you get him to talk?"</p><p> </p><p>"Sort of; he woke up about three hours ago then went back to sleep. Then about an hour and a half later, he woke back up. I didn't get much. He was extremely adverse and in denial about what happened, although he seemed to be assuaged when I informed him that William was arrested." </p><p> </p><p>"Well luckily, Reid should go away for a long time; they have enough evidence to convict him." Rossi said, nodding his head in satisfaction. </p><p> </p><p>"Dave, we can't indict him of anything." </p><p> </p><p>Rossi was taken aback, "What do you mean Aaron? He committed identity fraud and lied to the federal government. Don't tell me you're thinking of burying this information." </p><p> </p><p>"Look Dave, his father was extremely abusive. You know this." Hotch caught the gaze of a middle-aged woman, obviously displeased with his sudden burst of anger. He quickly mouthed an apology before continuing in a hushed tone. </p><p> </p><p>"I know that he has been part of the team for a year or two, and you've grown close, but that gives you no right to let him off because he had a sad childhood. You know as well as I do that most of the people we hunt went through the same things. You know this why the team thing doesn't work. You can't trust these pe—" </p><p> </p><p>"He thought his mother was dead Dave!"</p><p> </p><p>"Aaron," Rossi spoke in a soft voice.</p><p> </p><p>"He thought his mother was dead." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Spencer, I need to continue ok?" Hotch ran his hand over the boy's bony shoulder. He was so thin. If he were to fall, Hotch wouldn't be surprised if he shattered into hundreds of pieces, slivered ivory pieces of the once vivacious genius disbursed upon the hard ground. After a few seconds, the boy emitted a meek murmur, "You promise my dad is in jail?"  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I promise Spencer. He's locked up along with Ademar Marcelino, Pedro Lopez, and John Stevens." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Who?" His head lifted in confusion. "Nevermind...I don't want to know."  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hotch sighed, "Spencer, you that we have worked together for a while, and I," Hotch took a breath before continuing, "I trust you. But some information has recently been brought to the team's attention that we need to address." Spencer glared at Hotch. Hotch couldn't tell if he saw curiosity, worry, or wrath in his irises. "We know you stole the identity of Eric Tirwin in 2001. We know you were born in 1989 and not 1983, ok?"  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hands already shaking violently, Spencer's head joined in, moving side to side with vehemence, "That'snottruethat' snottrueyoudo n'tknowwhatyou'retalkingabout"  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "We know you did, alright? We just need to confirm you didn't kill the Tirwins."  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "What? what no! I didn't kill the Tirwins, I was at school, but when I saw the house, I knew the fire was so hot it burned the bones too much. I knew they wouldn't be able to confirm the bodies were there….they could only assume! You have to believe me, it was my only way out. I needed to get out Sir….I..I couldn't do it anymore….It was so hard." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Spencer, I need you to calm down. We know you did what you had to do. We talked to your mother, we know ab—" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "What do you mean, you talked to my mother!?" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "We talked to your mother, Diana. We know you didn't have the best relationship with her but...Spencer what are you doing? Stop doing that, you're going to hurt yourself!" he reached over to try and stop the kid from hitting his fist to his chest, but his attempts were futile.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "That's not possible. That's not possible."  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "What do you mean Spencer, tell me what's going on?"  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "She's dead! She died! He killed her! He killed her! Hekilledherhekilledhekilledher" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Spencer, she's not dead. We talked to her."  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Nononononono...She was sick in her head in the bedroom and I knew she was and dad knew she was and he took her outside into the car and she never came back! She never came back. He told me she would never come back."  </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>"Don't do this, Aaron. This is a heavily messed up kid who is going to be locked up in an institution the second he gets out of this hospital. Just look at what they found on his arms, look at what he's been charged with when he was a child nonetheless. I am sorry about what happened with Haley and the miscarriages, and I know you are lonely, but this is not what you want to do." Rossi yelled in a whisper. </p><p> </p><p>"I know. I know." </p><p> </p><p>"Then why?" </p><p> </p><p>"Because I know him and I know his potential, and you know I don't get emotionally attached to cases, but this is different, I need to do this. He doesn't deserve this." </p><p> </p><p>"This is why I don't think teams work." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> 3. The Dance  </em>
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  <em> Spencer pulled the IV out of his arm and pushed himself up to stand. He walked around the small room, taking in every detail, every corner. He started to sway, to tilt his head. It felt good to be up, to be on his own, after being caged for so long. His arms lifted and started to swing around his torso. He was becoming free again. The evening sun had set, the only light being the gaudy fluorescent strips above; the golden hue was gone. Yet, he danced.  </em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please review or leave kudos if you can! It means a lot! </p><p>Tumblr: @livvy1843</p>
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